


A Study in Shadow

by Chelrue (sprl1199)



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-27
Updated: 2010-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-14 04:04:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sprl1199/pseuds/Chelrue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A deathguard of New Agamand stumbles across a conspiracy involving the Royal Apothecary Society. The Wrathgate Event from a slightly different perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Shadow

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS!: Spoilers for the events at Wrathgate (if someone wasn't aware of them).
> 
> Disclaimer: The characters and events in question (minus the two OC's) belong to Blizzard. This story was written for fun, not profit.
> 
> Many thanks to baseblack for beta!

Sigerson scowled threateningly at the beetle torturously pushing itself up a small mound of soil that had accumulated in the roadway. Behind him, he could hear the sounds of New Agamand as another day tolled endlessly on.

“Do try to cheer up!” said Yarrum, with--Sigerson thought--more cheer than a member of the security detail assigned to the Royal Apothecary Society should be able to muster.

In life the man had been a village physician. In undeath he appeared compelled to address the hurts of his fellows. In Sigerson, as in every other Forsaken he had come into contact with, these hurts were deep rooted and metaphorical. Sigerson wondered where he found the stamina to persevere in his attempts to empathize with every individual he came into contact with.

Sigerson found his nature extraordinary, but would never tell him so. He was also the only deathguard who would allow himself to be partnered with Sigerson.

“I’m certain this drizzle won’t last,” continued Yarrum, as though the rain alone were responsible for the frown etched permanently upon Sigerson’s features.

Sigerson made no reply, instead continuing to glare ferociously down at the beetle. It was balanced precariously at the top of the mound, left legs working furiously to gain traction.

A sudden thundering of hoof beats announced the arrival of Chief Plaguebringer Harris with his personal guard of warlocks, returning from one of their frequent trips to Venomspite.

Coming to a halt at the gate, Harris’s horse—a live animal that had been taken in the most recent raid against Westguard Keep—snorted and pawed at the ground in agitation. In contrast, the Fel Steeds of the warlocks stood perfectly still in an eerie tableaux.

The beetle had fallen from its position atop the dirt mound and lay on its back, kicking its legs in a futile effort to right itself.

At Yarrum’s salute, Harris squinted down at the two guards.

“There is a shipment of great importance arriving sometime tonight,” he said coldly.

“You will ensure its safe entry into the camp. Above all, there are to be no delays for its courier,” he finished emphatically, peering at the two deathguards as though he fully expected one or the both of them to do their utmost to abscond with the shipment as soon as they set eyes upon it.

“What are the contents of this shipment, Chief Plaguebringer?” Yarrum inquired respectfully.

Harris gave him a frigid look. “That is none of your concern, guard. Know only that you are to defend it with your life.”

Yarrum blinked, but made no objection. Sigerson resisted the urge to scoff at the concept of sacrificing his current “life.”

The leader of New Agamand sat back on his horse and squinted north-west at the storm clouds settled along the horizon. “The hour of the Forsaken is upon us,” he murmured. “Soon…”

Rearing his horse in an overly flashy withdrawal and splashing mud onto the tunics of Sigerson and Yarrum, he rode off into the city with his warlock guard following in his wake. The beetle still lay twitching upon the road.

“Well,” said Yarrum, “Looks as though our dedication has been noticed. We’re being marked for special assignment already. Maybe soon we’ll be transferred back to the City and set to guard the Dark Lady herself,” he finished cheerfully.

Sigerson made no answer. Stooping, he scooped up the beetle and righted it.

He again stood back against the wall of the town, ignoring the knowing glance that Yarrum was no doubt sending him.

The beetle, idiot creature that it was, resumed its earlier path straining to climb over the dirt mound. Sigerson watched. And remembered.

*

 _“Don’t look!” Ara cried out, a hand pressed to her face to stifle her giggles. Her light blue eyes sparked radiantly in mirth._

 _“I have eyes, woman,” Sigerson replied, a small and affectionate smile on his face. “It goes against all that is natural for me to look away. Particularly from such a lovely sight.”_

 _Laughter breaking through her mock stern expression, she pushed him from the small nook near the fireplace that served as their kitchen. “Flattery will not assist you here.”_

 _She nudged him gently through the cottage door and gestured in the direction of the wood pile and his carpenter’s shop: implying a wealth of tasks awaiting to keep him occupied._

 _“You always know what I am baking you for your birthday,” she said. “You are impossible to surprise, but this year I am going to manage it.”_

 _Sigerson had no heart to tell her that it was obvious from the traces of spices on the sleeve of her dress and the sweet odor of mageroyal emanating from their cottage that his birthday treat this year was a chocolate cake. Instead he bowed his head in acquiescence and walked toward the wood pile, meaning to split some firewood while the day was still cool._

 _She remained framed in the doorway for a moment watching him, her face painted golden by the rosy rays of the rising sun as it washed across her features and played in her fair hair. Around him the residents of Andorhal were waking to another day in Lordaeron, and for one moment he felt incredible and inexpressible contentment with his place in life._

*

By nightfall the rain had abated; wispy clouds pursued one another across the curve of the sky while deep in the distant meadows echoed the soft sounds of the herds of shoveltusks as they bedded down in groups to ward against the encroaching frost.

This time, the approach of others was signaled not by the cacophony of hoof beats, but by a subtle shifting of shadows from which a single rider emerged, completely silent.

The rider was cloaked completely from head to toe in a black robe, his face hidden in the deep shadows of a hood. He made no gesture of greeting and instead directed his skeletal warhorse alongside the deathguards and stopped, waiting.

Sigerson saw a bundle tied to the back of the saddle and moved to untie it, thinking to carry the shipment inside the encampment’s walls.

Faster than the eye could follow a skeletal hand shot out and grabbed a hold his wrist before he could reach the ropes. The grip was strong and cold. Slowly the figure shook his head, a sense of mockery in the gesture. Throwing Sigerson’s hand--and consequently the rest of him--away from his mount, he gestured to the gate. Yarrum hurried to open it.

The rider moved silently inside the walls and toward the Chief Plaguebringer’s laboratory as Sigerson stood and watched, frowning and contemplatively rubbing his wrist.

“Nasty fellow,” said Yarrum, his face in an uncustomary frown. “If luck is with us, he’ll leave by the main gate and we won’t have need to see him again.”

“Yes,” agreed Sigerson, absently. He turned away from the now invisible figure, a strangely haunting floral scent lingering in his nostrils.

***

The next morning dawned, and Sigerson and Yarrum surrendered their post as a fresh set of guards replaced them at the gate. In recent days the number of deathguards in New Agamand had grown exponentially as more Forsaken passed through en route to Ice Crown Citadel and the ongoing battle that was waging there.

As per regulation, they proceeded to the command tent to report the night’s occurrences.

It was an unattractive structure, gloomy and chaotic, as much of Forsaken architecture tended to be.

Inside they found Deathstalker Hayward manning the desk. Hayward was ostensibly leader of the deathguard contingent currently assigned to New Agamand, but he had not been promoted to that position due to intelligence or skills in the military arts.

Sigerson found him reprehensible.

“Yes, yes, what is it?” Hayward questioned with an impatient and distracted air. He busily shuffled the parchments that lay in a disorganized array across the desk.

Yarrum stood at attention to give his report.

“Sir, Deathguard Sigerson and I assumed our post at the back gate shortly before sunset. In the period of time while the gate was open, only Chief Plaguebringer Harris and his personal guard entered. After the gate was locked for the night, the only entry was by a single courier, who made his delivery successfully just after midnight.”

“Delivery?” Hayward squinted at the scroll he held. “There was no delivery scheduled for last night, and certainly not through the back gate. Which courier are you speaking of?”

Yarrum paused before answering carefully. “We don’t know, sir. Chief Plaguebringer Harris informed us of his arrival that afternoon and stressed that there were to be no delays in granting him entry.”

Hayward froze and then looked directly at the two deathguards for the first time since they had entered the tent, a light of dawning comprehension on his face that he quickly attempted to smother.

“Ah, that shipment. I understand. Speak no more about it.” He directed his gaze back down to the parchments on his desk and waved his hand dismissively. Yarrum turned to leave, but Sigerson remained still.

“Did Chief Plaguebringer Harris not report the shipment? Sir.” Sigerson added the appellation hastily.

Hayward’s face darkened while his eyes shot somewhat nervously toward Apothecary Oni’jus, newly arrived from Undercity in her role as head of the testing section of the Royal Apothecary Society.

“I said, speak no more about it, Deathguard,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “There was nothing irregular about the shipment. Return to your duties.”

Sigerson nodded curtly and swept out of the tent, Yarrum trailing in his wake.

Once they had emerged, Yarrum stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“What was that all about?” he queried. “You’ll be lucky if you’re not written up for insubordination.”

Sigerson looked at him steadily. “Something isn’t right,” he said simply.

*

 _Sigerson frowned._

 _“Is something the matter?” Ara asked, her small and clever hands working diligently on patching a tear in Kaseras’s gown. Around them, the residents of Andorhal busily prepared for their annual town festival._

 _“I…Where is Borl? And his son Attiken? I saw the boy yesterday, and he was excited about the dance this evening.”_

 _“I’m certain they’re here somewhere. They are probably hidden in the crowd,” Ara responded, frowning briefly down at the hem in her hand and evaluating her stitching. “Or perhaps they’re at the grain silo. The Light knows Borl works more hours than he should.”_

 _The silo was locked tight, as was the small mill next door where Borl and Attiken lived. Sigerson was certain they were not in the crowd present in the town square. His attention to minute details--which many in the town found both off-putting and strange--would not have missed such a fact._

 _“Yes, I suppose,” he said instead. He was not infallible. Perhaps he had simply missed them. Despite the justifications, his sense of quiet unease did not abate._

*

Sigerson strode into the inner sanctum of Chief Plaguebringer Harris, paying no mind to the trio of warlocks who stood in strategic placement about the room.

Harris appeared entirely unconcerned.

“Yes?” he asked sourly, sparing only the briefest of glances away from the parchment on which he was rapidly scratching notes.

“What was in the shipment that arrived late last night through the back gate?” Sigerson asked without ceremony, eyes trained intensely on the man’s face for any sign of guilt or fear.

The scientist’s expression remained blank, but he returned his quill to the inkwell with a slow precision designed to buy time. After a moment he turned to Sigerson.

“That’s really not any concern of yours, is it?” he questioned softly. “You are merely a guard. A cog in the wheel of the Forsaken army. Matters of state and war are a bit beyond your purview, don’t you agree?”

Sigerson felt his mouth twist up in a grimace.

“However, as a guard for New Agamand I believe that matters of security _are_ within my purview,” he said just as softly. “Particularly if that security is being threatened by a conspiracy propagated by the Royal Apothecary Society.”

He said the last on instinct to see how Harris would react to the implication, but he was disappointed in the response.

Harris laughed, though there was little humor in it.

“And what exactly did you hope to accomplish by coming here?” he asked somewhat mockingly. “You? A deathguard of no real consequence without a single ally to back you? I can‘t even be bothered to remember your name.”

Sigerson felt uncharacteristically furious. It made him reckless.

“I believe that Apothecary Oni’jus would be interested in hearing my suspicions.”

This, at last, got a reaction. Harris’s expression went blank and he pinned Sigerson with an intense stare.

“That would be a poor decision on your part,” he said evenly. His eyes flickered toward the warlock bodyguard standing nearest to him, and the man stepped toward Sigerson.

At that moment Yarrum, who Sigerson had forgotten about in the intensity of his anger, stepped forward.

“Please excuse my friend, Chief Plaguebringer,” he said respectfully. “We’ve just come off a long stint of patrol, and I believe his brain is addled. I was taking him to the Healer’s tent when he broke away from me and ran into your laboratory. I hope he did not offend you with his ravings.”

Harris frowned at Yarrum. Seeing nothing but deep sincerity in his face, he leaned back in his chair. His hand, which had clenched around the parchment he had been writing on, slowly relaxed.

“Quite right,” he said after a moment. The warlock guard, sensing the easing of tensions, fell back to his previous position. “Go. Take your friend to the Healer. We will need each and every Forsaken in peak operating condition if we’re to succeed in defeating Arthas.”

His mouth twisted slightly: an expression of malice. “After all, that is the Dark Lady’s premiere objective.”

Yarrum had grabbed his shoulder and was dragging him out the door. Sigerson allowed himself to be led silently, knowing there was nothing to be accomplished in that place.

As the pair were moving toward the door, one of the warlocks must have made some inquiry, because as they stepped out the door Sigerson could hear Chief Plaguebringer murmur, “No, he doesn’t know anything.”

The slamming of the door seemed to punctuate the statement. _Doesn’t know anything._

*

 _That afternoon Sigerson saw figures near the grain silo._

 _As Sigerson approached the three individuals turned as one to face him, their features average but strangely worn. All were adorned in long gray cloaks, the bottoms of which were coated in a fine red dust._

 _None of their demeanors were especially friendly, and Sigerson was not disposed toward pleasantries at the best of times._

 _“Where is the miller?” he asked bluntly._

 _There was a brief hesitation before one of the men spoke. “Went to Hearthglen for the morning,” he answered with an unsettlingly direct and chilling gaze. “Had business, and took his boy with him.”_

 _“What business?” Sigerson asked, frowning._

 _“I fear we know only what we were told,” the lone woman in their party murmured, her voice low and somewhat gravely. She was wearing a rather sickly and thin smile that did nothing to lighten her expression._

 _“Councilman Curtzan hired us for the day to ensure there was no interruption in the mill’s operation because of your miller’s unexpected departure.”_

 _“I see,” Sigerson said, no conviction in his tone. “You are millers then?”_

 _Again it was the woman who answered._

 _“Indeed. And if you will excuse us, we have duties to attend to. If you have any other questions, set them to Councilman Curtzan.”_

 _The dismissal was clear. Sigerson watched the trio walk into the mill, unsettled and unsure._

*

Leaving the Apothecary’s building, Sigerson found himself at a loss.

He could sense Yarrum’s worried gaze upon him. Recognizing the man’s rescue for what it was, he was compelled to comment.

“Thank you,” he said, unable to look the other deathguard in the eye. Expressions of gratitude had never been easy for him. Apparently this awkward statement was enough, for Yarrum smiled and slapped Sigerson on the shoulder.

“Think nothing of it,” he said. “Always glad to be of assistance.”

He sobered quickly, a grave expression on his face as they stood in the shadow of the laboratory.

“Do you really believe there is a conspiracy at work here?”

Sigerson felt his mood, which had brightened surprisingly at Yarrum’s demonstration of camaraderie, darken again. What did he hope to accomplish, indeed?

He nodded in response to Yarrum’s question, adding: “But I know of no other avenue to pursue to discover what this is all about.”

“Let’s look around,” his comrade suggested. “If there truly is a conspiracy somewhere here, surely we’ll find a sign of it.”

Sigerson found this suggestion entirely optimistic and naïve, but he allowed himself to be pulled further into the settlement.

*

 _Later on that evening the dance had blossomed. Lanterns and flowers braided into ropes draped over every available surface. The smell of sweets and other succulent foodstuffs eddied through the air, sharing the breeze with the cheerful tunes of all the local musicians to be found in Andorhal, some playing in concert while others took a rather more independent route._

 _Ara stood at his side, clapping her hands to the most perceptible of the beats and beaming widely as she watched the dancers. Sigerson watched as well, although deep down he knew he was looking for the miller and his son. He still had not seen them._

 _As always, Ara knew his thoughts. “Go ask Councilman Curtzan where they are,” she suggested, smiling gently up at him._

 _He returned her smile with one of his own, shaded in self-deprecation. “We’ll dance soon,” he promised. “I’m…,” the sorry stuck in his throat, as it always did._

 _She gently pushed on his shoulder, shepherding him in the direction of the towering old tree where the Council members stood conversing. “Your concern for our neighbors does you credit,” she said simply. “You should not be ashamed of such an honorable emotion.” Even after three years of marriage, Ara was still trying to lighten Sigerson’s general demeanor. He found it charming; though he was doubtful she would ever succeed to her satisfaction._

*

As Sigerson had expected, their camp wanderings produced no clue of consequence. He made mental note of the high number of scouts returning from Ice Crown and entering Harris’s chamber, but he was unable to perceive any other useful detail from their appearance.

The day had dawned bright and clear, and Sigerson had to look away from the sunlight throwing the features of his fellow Forsaken into sharp relief as he and Yarrum passed near the wyvern master. He looked to the ground instead…

…and happened upon a very strange pair of boots: vibrant purple and topped with copper colored plumes. Following the line of the boots up past the customary apothecary robe, his eyes came to rest upon the face of Plaguebringer Tillinghast.

Well known inside New Agamand for his eccentricities, Tillinghast had been an older man when the plague had felled him. He was the most brilliant of the apothecaries on post, as well as completely mad.

“Ah, just the man I was looking for!” he exclaimed, focusing his gaze somewhere between Sigerson and Yarrum. “Quickly, help me with these boxes, for there’s not a moment to lose!” At this he kicked one of a pair of large crates that sat by his feet. It rattled ominously in response and growled.

Yarrum, looking bemused, immediately stooped to lift the box. After shooting Sigerson a meaningful glance, he did likewise. The old man hadn’t waited to see if they would follow, instead bustling off through the crowd. Crates in hand, the two deathguards followed.

The old man’s laboratory was a very colorful, very eclectic sty. Plants, bones, rocks, furs, bits of earth and metal: all lay in piles and heaps on every available space, including the floor. As Sigerson watched, a raven swooped from the rafters and nabbed a small, furry creature out of the jumbled mess. The creature retaliated by spitting some form of venom at the bird, which screeched in surprise and dropped its prey, flying frantically out the door. Sigerson carefully held the crate he was carrying, which was now growling continuously, further away from his torso.

“Anywhere,” the apothecary said, gesturing vaguely to the chaos around them. He had turned to a set of crystal goblets and beakers, busying himself by pouring a virulent orange substance between containers. He seemed to have forgotten his sense of urgency.

Spotting a relatively clear spot on the floor, Sigerson gratefully relieved himself of his burden. Yarrum quickly set his own crate down, and the two exchanged an amused glance.

Sigerson began to wander around the laboratory, trying to make sense of the piles of supplies and refuse that ran the gamut from the extremely rare to the frankly bizarre.

He came to an abrupt halt near a vase of odd yellow and blue flowers with waxy leaves and prominent thorns. A strange scent hovered around them, one that he recognized instantly as that which had clung to the mysterious courier the night before.

“This. What is this plant? Where does it come from?” He stared intently at the blooms, his mind racing furiously. Yarrum noticed his agitation and moved up beside him.

“Hmmm?” Tillinghast said distractedly. “Those are the blooms of the Lasher from the Emerald Dragonshrine. Fascinating species. They are the dominant food source for a type of caterpillar, who create the most amazingly intricate web systems--”

Sigerson cut him off impatiently. “Yes, I see. But does it grow anywhere else?”

The intensity of his tone registered, and the Plaguebringer turned toward him, blinking owlishly.

“Why, no. They are restricted to the Emerald Dragonshrine. They need a specific mineral in the soil in order to flourish.” He trailed off uncertainly at the expression on Sigerson’s face.

“Sigerson,” Yarrum said worriedly, “whatever is the matter?”

“Dragons.” Sigerson whispered.

“Plaguebringer Tillinghast,” he continued urgently, “the most confounding issue with weaponizing a plague against the Scourge is the issue of how we contain it stably before we deploy it, correct?”

The old apothecary blinked again, “That’s correct,” he said sounding surprised. “But however did you know?”

“My ears are functioning perfectly,” Sigerson bit out. “And many of the Assistant Apothecaries about the camp take no note of who is listening. Think! Is there some way to utilize the power of dragons in order to contain the plague?”

Thinking quickly back to the night before, he added “Perhaps some dragon byproduct or derivative, specifically one of the green dragons: something small that could be carried in a pack of average size.”

Tillinghast gasped, eyes widening as he gestured wildly and inexplicably.

He turned suddenly to one of the tables, clearing it with a swoop of his arm and energetically scratching an equation with his fingers as he muttered to himself.

“Tillinghast!” Sigerson yelled, attempting to focus the man’s attention back to the discussion at hand.

Tillinghast whirled around, a triumphant and unusually lucid expression on his beaming face.

“Emerald dragon tears!” he said joyously. “The unique biological systems of the Emerald Dragonshrine have long resisted any Scourge encroachment. Undoubtedly any dragon tears will likewise have a resistance to death and shadow magic. It’s brilliant! Of course, one would need an able adventurer and fighter to secure entry to the Dragonshrine in order to access them.”

Thinking back on the courier he had briefly met the night before, Sigerson said dryly, “Oh, I believe that Chief Plaguebringer Harris already located such an individual.”

“But-- Well, that’s wonderful, isn’t it?” said Yarrum. “With our stability issues solved, we can make a stand against the Scourge and put an end to this terrible conflict.”

Sigerson looked at him steadily. “I fear that that is not the purpose to which Harris intends to put the plague,” he said gravely. “If it were, he and his cohorts would not be operating in secrecy, particularly not from Oni‘jus, who is well known for her loyalty to the Dark Lady.”

Yarrum grasped the significance of this statement immediately. “It’s a coup! Someone must warn Undercity at once!”

“Indeed,” Sigerson agreed. “You must get a message to Oni’jus immediately telling her of Harris’s treachery. It is very probable that multiple members of the Royal Apothecary Society are involved. Sylvanas _must_ be warned. It is impossible to know how deep this plot runs or when the conspirators may strike.”

Yarrum nodded. “But what of you? What will you be doing? Surely nothing is more important now than warning the Dark Lady of the threats in her midst?”

“Incorrect, Yarrum.” Sigerson responded. “In his laboratory, Harris was holding a parchment with estimates of the number of soldiers gathered at Icecrown Citadel: both Horde and Alliance. It would simple enough for him to obtain, given the number of scouts he has dispatched there.”

He paused and tried futilely to wet his lips, a nervous gesture that remained from his time among the living.

“I am certain he is going to launch the plague against the entirety of the forces gathered there in addition to the Scourge,” he continued in a low voice. “It is the ultimate strike: a simultaneous blow against both the Lich King and the living. Perhaps even the first strike of many. The Forsaken would emerge more powerful in the upheaval.”

“But at such a cost.” Yarrum said in horror.

Sigerson went on. “The conspirators have the final component for their plan. Indeed, they have had it since last night. There has already been more than enough time to reach Icecrown Citadel with the plague.”

Yarrum looked aghast. “We may even now be too late! But then what can we possibly hope to do?”

Sigerson attempted to muster a smile. “Us? Nothing. There was never any hope of the pair of us triumphing over a vast network of bloodthirsty agents intent on the destruction of all life on Azeroth.”

As he continued, his smile became a bit firmer around the edges. “But the conspirators made one fatal mistake along the way. They have involved the dragons in our little drama. And once dragons are involved, no outcome, no matter how inevitable it appears, is certain.”

*

 _Sigerson walked slowly toward the group of village council members beneath the ancient tree, dodging couples that energetically danced into his path._

 _Magistrate Lutzia was laughing at something Councilman Curtzan had said, the peals of her childlike laugh tinkling like bells. At Sigerson’s approach the council turned toward him, their faces expectant and, as always, vaguely wary at his presence._

 _Sigerson called up a friendly smile, the expression feeling stiff and unnatural._

 _“Excuse me, sir,” he said to Councilman Curtzan, “but may I have a word?”_

 _“Of course my boy,” the Councilman boomed in reply. He was a large man, often speaking loudly and jovially when addressing the townsfolk. Sigerson had always found him irritating._

 _When it became clear that the Councilman had no intention of moving away from the other council members for them to speak in private, Sigerson continued._

 _“Who are those three individuals you hired to work the mill today?” It wasn’t the question he had meant to ask, but he realized as he said it that his unease about the trio had been worrying in his mind the entire evening._

 _The Councilman frowned slightly and reflexively clutched his vest with his hands. His tone, however, was as loud and jovial as ever._

 _“Those three? Why they’re millers out of Brill. They were kind enough to come work our mill today—after working their own this morning, mind you—after Borl had to leave for the morning.”_

 _The firelight from the lanterns reflected off of the spectacles the Councilman was wearing, and his smile seemed fixed in place. Sigerson was certain he was lying._

 _“Where are Borl and Attiken?” The question came out harsher than he had intended, and now the crowd was starting to take notice. A gentle murmur picked up around them._

 _“Why, I’m sure they’re here enjoying the festival, my boy, same as you should be doing.” Curtzan’s tone was relentlessly paternal._

 _“They are not,” Sigerson said. “I’m certain of it.”_

 _“You must have missed them,” Curtzan replied, his smile--to Sigerson’s mind--beginning to appear as a predator’s bearing of fangs. Could no one else see?_

 _“They are **not** here, you posturing buffoon!” Sigerson insisted. His voice had risen without him realizing, and a crowd was forming around the tree. The rest of the village council was frowning at him and standing close to Curtzan, conveying their support._

 _Curtzan finally lost his grin and glared at Sigerson. “Young man, I’d mind you to watch yourself,” he said, menacingly._

*

The wyvern hurtled through the evening sky, the flapping of its wings serving in Sigerson’s mind as a substitute for his own missing heartbeat. Streams of air the color of murky water slipped serpentlike around his body as his mount flew ever faster toward Wyrmrest Temple.

And still he feared it would not be fast enough.

The temple was a huge and intimidating edifice, dominating a landscape of barren snow and icy plains.

Deciding formality could wait until a moment when time wasn’t so dear, Sigerson mentally uttered a quick prayer to the Light that he was no longer supposed to appeal to and directed the wyvern toward the pinnacle.

Alexstrasza was the only representative of the Flights in the receiving chamber when Sigerson brought his wyvern in for a hasty landing on the ornately carved floor. Though her face was turned north along the dilapidated Path of the Titans toward Ice Crown Citadel, Sigerson felt an expectant watchfulness upon his person.

There were no guards in the chamber, and Sigerson had the eerie feeling that she had been waiting for him to arrive.

“My Lady Aspect,” he said, not knowing the proper form of address for the ancient leader of the Red Dragonflight, “we have a problem.”

At this she turned, tossing her red hair and laughing. The sound was at once both girlish and frightening, the tones echoing about the chamber.

“ _We_ have a problem, Undead?” she questioned, her voice devoid of emotion, despite the remnants of laughter that remained.

“It is not the way of the Flights to involve themselves with the mortal squabbling of the Horde or the Alliance. By necessity, our attentions must be elsewhere.” At the last she turned again toward the Citadel, a small frown playing about her features.

Sigerson ventured to speak. “You know of the plague then,” he said, not a question.

“We do,” Alexstrasza confirmed, her voice a murmur as she shifted her eyes back to the horizon. “It has nothing to do with us.”

“You are wrong!” Sigerson’s yell echoed through the chamber much as Alexstrasza’s laughter had moments ago, and he wondered wildly if all the sounds loosed in the Aspect’s chamber were still in existence somewhere in Azeroth, reverberating out across Dragonblight.

“There is a contingent within the Royal Apothecary Society that means to destroy all life on Azeroth! Surely that is something well beyond a mortal squabble. You are the Apect of living creatures, and it is your **duty** to act!” He continued to yell, desperate to reach her.

The dragon at last turned and began to walk toward him slowly, her face blank in the dim fingers of moonlight streaming through the windows.

“My duty to act?” She cocked her head to the side. “What does one such as you know about duty?”

Sigerson felt himself freeze. “Too much,” he croaked. He closed his eyes.

*

 _He had not noticed Ara approaching, but suddenly she was there, grabbing his arm and smiling at the council members in a conciliatory manner._

 _“Please pay him no mind,” she said quickly. “He has had several glasses of mead, and he’s simply concerned for our neighbors.”_

 _The councilman regained his charm in the face of Ara’s sweet smile. “Well, I’m sure we can all understand such a sentiment,” he said, his statement including all of the listeners who had gathered under the tree. “I was young once myself, after all.”_

 _“It’s no excuse not to keep a civil tongue, however,” he finished severely, for all the world like a schoolteacher scolding an unruly pupil. Sigerson began to rankle before feeling Ara squeezing his arm desperately. He looked down at her._

 _Her eyes were pleading. She had worked tirelessly since their marriage to smooth over Sigerson’s rough edges and find him a place in their community, despite his eccentricities._

 _He wanted to storm angrily at the Chairman for lying to him. Those people clearly weren’t from Brill: the dust on their cloaks proved they had been traveling the road from Stratholme where the soil ran red with minerals._

 _He wanted to loudly proclaim that none of the three had the calluses on their hands consistent with working in a mill._

 _He wanted to shake Curtzan until he confessed these lies._

 _But with Ara looking up at him, beseechingly, he could not bring himself to do it._

 _“I apologize,” he said instead, dropping his eyes down where they lit upon Curtzan’s shoes, which also bore hints of a red dust._

 _The Chairman was quick to grant forgiveness. “Think nothing of it, my boy!” he crowed. “That mead can easily get the best of us. Go dance! Enjoy yourself with your lovely wife!” Flashing Sigerson one last ingratiating grin, he turned back to the other council members._

 _Ara took his hand. “Let’s dance,” she said, a gentle smile on her face. Sigerson nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and allowed himself to be led into the crowd. He said nothing._

 _The Light help him, he said **nothing.** It would prove to be the greatest mistake of his life._

 _The second greatest, and one that ran a close second in his reflections, was that he chose to have a fresh loaf of bread the next morning instead of joining Ara in her breakfast of berries and cream._

*

When he opened his eyes again Alexstrasza was looking at him intently. Sigerson swore he could see sympathy reflected in her amber gaze. Unable to bear it, he shifted his eyes to the side, looking out the window as he continued.

“You must do something,” he said, his voice growing stronger. “If the conspirators are allowed to fulfill their plan, there will not be a single living creature left on Azeroth. The Flights may not be affected by the plague, but if it is within your power to stop this from happening, you must do so. We all have a responsibility to act when we see darkness.”

Alexstrasza was smiling slightly now, her gaze warm. “I believe you are correct, Undead. We are all responsible.”

She turned toward the entrance to the chamber, moving briskly now. “Would you come as well?” she asked.

“Do not doubt it for a second,” he replied, fiercely.

***

In the end they had been too late to prevent the tragedy at Arathgar the Wrathgate. Perched precariously on his mount above the seething mass of green and death, Sigerson could only watch in numbed horror as soldiers from both the Alliance and the Horde fell in an instant.

The flames of the Red Dragonflight had burned away the plague with a purity and heat that made the area impossible to withstand, even for a Forsaken body. Sigerson now stood atop a nearby bluff, watching the flames curling up into the air as they burned all evidence of the tragedy.

Alexstrasza stepped up beside him, once again in her High Elven form. She too watched the flames.

"I don't know what to do now," Sigerson said. It would strike him as absurd later that he had felt the need to bare the remnants of his soul to this dragon, above all creatures. But at that moment, standing above the second mass grave it had been his sorrow to witness, he felt the need for truth.

"I should be dead, and yet I'm not," he went on. "Death, pain and destruction are everywhere. All ends in darkness, despite the best efforts of those greater than myself. What possible purpose can there be for this farce?"

His voice had grown increasingly hoarse as he spoke, and when he finished his words died off slowly as they mixed with the muted roar of the dragon flame.

"Purpose," Alexstrasza sighed in an echo. Her eyes were still trained on the ground below. "It is the purpose of the living to struggle for survival, and for those who have reached the end of their life to depart this world. It is the natural order of things." She seemed to ponder for a moment.

"You, as all of your kind, are unnatural." She did not say it in a cruel way, but Sigerson felt something inside of him clench tightly regardless.

But then she turned toward him again, her eyes sparking with humor and liveliness, reminding him achingly of another pair of eyes that used to so often hold similar emotion.

"Truly, Undead, you are in a uniquely extraordinary position." She leaned closer and gave him a small grin bordering on conspiratorial.

"You are in a position to make your own rules."

She looked at him a moment longer before stepping back and striding back toward her brethren.

"I must attend to the flames," she said. "You are capable of making your way from here."

It was not a question, and Sigerson found himself smiling slightly as he watched her descend the bluff.

"Indeed," he murmured.

***

When at last he reached Undercity the following day, Yarrum ran up to him in agitation and excitement.

"Where have you been, man?" he exclaimed. "There was a coup against Sylvanas, and we were forced to retake the city. Even the Warchief himself was here! You missed a truly marvelous battle."

Before Sigerson could reply, he was gruffly summoned. Oni’jus stood near the entrance to the Royal Quarter, her black cloak more tattered and ragged than when last Sigerson had seen her in New Agamand. Her stomach appeared to be slowly reknitting itself as well, but Sigerson was careful to not look too closely.

"The Dark Lady wishes to see you," the Death Guard said in her low, raspy voice. Her eyes shifted to Yarrum. "Both of you."

Yarrum looked nervous at this pronouncement, but Sigerson--feeling more at peace than he had in a decade--merely nodded and walked through the entrance, no hesitation in his steps as he proceeded down the long hallway.

Sylvanas was strikingly beautiful, he observed, not for the first time. The Dark Lady of the Forsaken had an aura of power surrounding her that pulled the eye as much as her elven features. It was not a surprise that so many of his race worshiped her.

As was her custom, she was standing on the dais. Though she did not engage in such mortal behavior as fidgeting, Sigerson had the impression she was filled with a limitless energy that compelled her to be always on guard.

Her face was expressionless as she watched the Deathguards approach and sink into bows.

"Rise," she commanded, a history of leadership in both life and undeath present in her tone.

They obeyed. For a moment she merely stood and considered them.

"What is your name?" she asked Sigerson at last, her voice devoid of emotion.

"Sigerson, My Lady," he replied. "Formerly Sigerson the Carpenter of Andorhal."

Her eyes shifted briefly to Yarrum. "This one," she said, "has told me that you uncovered the coup against me and found evidence of the traitorous actions of those within the Royal Apothecary Society at the behest of Varimathas. Is this true?"

"Yes My Lady," he said, "though I did not know of Varimathas's involvement until now." He hesitated before continuing. "He is dead then?"

Sylvanas allowed a small smile to cross her features as her eyes glinted dangerously. "He is no longer a concern," she said. "The conspirators within the Royal Apothecary Society will soon follow."

She stopped a moment, and her face returned to its earlier, expressionless mask. "How did you learn of the coup?" she demanded. Sigerson knew that this was the impetus behind the audience. He answered slowly, testing the words as they came.

"I observed aberrations in the actions of certain individuals at New Agamand, My Lady. There were observable details that made it apparent there was more at work than was evident at first glance. That is all."

Sylvanas's eyes were approving and speculative. "Clearly you have a mind that is predisposed to the detection of falsehoods and plots, Sigerson of Undercity. I could use one such as you. The path ahead is a murky one, and I cannot be certain that I have unearthed every conspirator who thought to move against me."

She pinned him with penetrating, red stare. "You will work as my agent. You will travel throughout Azeroth at my request, ensuring the interests of the Forsaken. You will answer only to me and will have my full support behind you for your investigations. What say you?"

Sigerson thought over the ramifications of this "offer," Yarrum gaping beside him in disbelief.

At last he spoke.

"There are...wrongs to be found throughout all of Azeroth. As an individual, I will always work to the best of my abilities to counteract them. I would be honored to accept any position that would allow me to exercise those same abilities to ensure a safer, more peaceful world for all and closely monitor those in power." _Including you,_ he added silently.

Sylvanas gave a small, knowing smile at his carefully chosen words. "Then I hereby grant you the title of 'Master Investigator of the Forsaken.' Wear it well, for it is the first position of its kind, and--should you disappoint me in execution of your duties--could be the last."

She turned from them to face a squad of deathstalkers who were entering the throne room, a trio of apothecaries shaking and chained before them.

"You are dismissed," she said with finality, eyes once again cold and feral.

Sigerson did not wait around to see judgment passed on the conspirators. Taking hold of Yarrum's arm, he pulled him quickly out of the chamber.

It was only when they were once again standing in the Apothecarium that Yarrum apparently felt composed enough to react to the Sylvanas's pronouncement.

"Master Investigator?" he said, eyes wide. "That's phenomenal! Why, you will have the full weight of the Forsaken and the Dark Lady herself behind you."

Sigerson simply grunted in response, turning and walking along the canal. Yarrum followed.

"Well aren't you pleased? This is an amazing opportunity! If you work carefully, you'll be able to play an integral role in determining the future of the Forsaken!"

Sigerson smiled. "You are slightly incorrect. _We_ will be playing a role to determine the future of the Forsaken."

Yarrum stopped in surprise and stared at him. "We? You mean, you want me to come along?"

“I see you as indispensable to the success of this position."

Yarrum started walking again alongside him, now smiling broadly.

"Well, I suppose you need someone to ensure you don’t continue to mortally irritate those in authority. And I've always wanted to travel."

Sigerson smiled. They walked together through Undercity, and--for the first time since he had met his undeath--Sigerson knew himself to be moving forward.

*

 _Ara grinned impishly where she lay sprawled across the grass pressed against Sigerson’s side. Drawing her finger through the remnants of icing she made to paint Sigerson’s nose. He caught her hand and licked the icing from her finger instead, delighting in her giggles._

 _She lay back against his shoulder and sighed contentedly. “I wish we could stay like this forever,” she said. “Though I suppose after a time we would grow bored of cake crumbs and blue skies.”_

 _Sigerson buried his nose in her fair hair, cherishing her closeness._

 _“That I was fortunate enough to have this moment with you is enough, whether it lasts for a single hour or for eternity. I could wish for no better gift.”_

 _Ara crinkled her nose. “Such a poet!” she exclaimed._

 _He kissed her to stop her laughter._

*

 

But across the icy plains of Dragonblight, a pall lingered. Though the plague was burned away in the ferocious flames of the Redflight dragons, the dark intent behind its creation was not so easily dispersed.

This essence moved in swirls and eddies, carried by the wind across the seas of Azeroth. It pried its way far into the bowels of Deepholm, whispering of the death of all living things. Smelling of the promise of annihilation.

And deep within the heated darkness, the great black dragon recognized this message, and began to stir.


End file.
